


Orpheus

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-02
Updated: 2001-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:02:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mythological journey the Red Deer board of tourism does not want you to know about. Watch for the goat's cameo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orpheus

**Author's Note:**

> Ophelia is a horrible influence. This came about from a story she read me over the phone while I was at work. Amy beta'ed it. Love you both! (Although in *completely* different ways.) Not my toys, I am still trying to get rid of a Dead!Joe. Takers?

Billy stared numbly at the body on the sidewalk. Joe's face was still scrunched up like he knew how much it would hurt. For a moment, Billy hoped he wasn't even close, and then the reality hit.

John grabbed his hand. "What are we going to do?" he asked.

Billy was still for a long moment. "Bring him back," he said.

John was so fried, he didn't even blink.

So they loaded up the van again. Billy knew nothing of how to get to hell, but he spent his youth listening to someone who did.

Bucky didn't seem surprised to see them. Billy shouldered his pack and entered the farm house.

"He's dead," Bucky said.

Billy nodded.

"I thought you'd be in Los Angeles."

"I want him back. He's mine."

"You can't have him, he's dead."

"And you know how to get him back."

Bucky snorted. "I do not."

Billy reached into his bag and pulled out Bucky's 1979 top album, *I've been to Hell*, and threw it on the table.

"That doesn't mean anything," Bucky said. "I didn't actually go to Hell."

Buck threw on the table the 1980 follow up album, *No, Really, I've been to Hell*.

Bucky jumped back. "You don't want to go, Billy, it's horrible. I-"

Billy reached into his bag to pull out the limited edition, 1982 live album *And it wasn't that bad*, when Bucky sat down at the table. "All right," he said.

Billy leaned forward. "How do you get to hell?" he asked.

Bucky looked up, a leering skull. "Red Deer," he said.

Billy snapped his fingers. "I knew it!"

John and Pipe stood by the van by the highway. "We're going to get him back."

Both Pipe and John nodded.

"We're going to Hell."

Both Pipe and John nodded.

A long pause. John asked, "Where, exactly, is Hell?"

"Red Deer."

Pipe went white. "No way, man, no fucking way," he said, backing up. "No fucking way am I going to Red Fucking Deer. Not for you, not for any fucking one, man. I'm not. Forget that shit."

He continued backing up. Billy tried to stop him, but John grabbed Billy just before the tractor trailer truck turned Pipe into road pizza.

John looked to Billy, Billy looked to John. "Red Deer it is, then."

*

The fringes of Red Deer were designed to welcome weary travelers and keep them out of the heart of the city. They promised convenient gas (although never inexpensive), tea houses, and several brands of doughnuts. Less wise, and less welcoming, were the hotels and motels on Gasoline Alley, which were only for the most desperate traveler.

For those who had abandoned all hope, there were three overpasses, all swinging east into the heart of Red Deer.

Billy stopped just short of the overpass into Gaetz Avenue. Over the past four hours, the trucks had required more and more baling twine for repairs and the cowboy hats became more and more beaten.

Billy was nervous, and he really wanted John to stop plucking out the theme to Deliverance on his guitar.

"Ready?" Billy asked.

John swallowed. The last note died out and the silence that followed was eerie. As Billy pulled east onto the overpass, the radio (which had been dead for years) glowed green and turned on.

Country music blared through the speakers. Billy stabbed at the stations, but the song didn't change, it only got louder. A mocking laughter came on. John covered his ears. "Make it stop, make it stop!" he howled.

Billy groped around the floor to the van and then he held *I herd it through the Bovine* up to the radio. The laughing voice screamed and then hissed in pain. The music died and the glow disappeared.

Billy leaned against the back of his chair. "That was close," he said.

John nodded. "Too close."

"Do you still want to go on?"

John's face was still white. "Uh-yah," he said.

Billy slammed on the brakes. "What did you just say?" he demanded.

John's eyes were wild. Billy slapped him, again and again. "Yeah!" John finally managed. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!"

Billy drove on.

The bar was like any other that promised 12 cent wings on Wednesday. The Hitching Post was spelled out with rope. The minions of Hell had already gathered.

Billy and John got out of the van, and Billy watched the minions' lurching gaits. Their fingers stuck into overall belt loops, their legs so bowed they couldn't walk straight but scurried like crabs. Black tobacco spit fell like rain.

They came from no where and everywhere all at once. A dozen or a dozen dozen, it didn't make a difference.

Billy heard them, then.

"My cow up and died last night." "Looks like rain." "You can't get there from here."

John grabbed Billy by the arm. "Go, I'll hold them off."

Billy shook his head. "You'll be killed."

John glanced back to the growing horde. "We don't have much time."

Billy grabbed John as well. "I never thought you were fucking nuts," he said.

John's eyes filled with tears. Billy pushed on alone. He glanced back, at the door of the bar, and John was completely surrounded.

"The root celler's plum full of turnips this year..." "Tractor needs a new belt, I'm afraid..." "Blew the roof clean off, never seen..."

John's screams followed Billy into the bar.

"Kurt Cobaine?" Billy asked.

Kurt looked at him with dead, flat eyes. His skin was grey, his hair limp, and other than the gaping red hole in his lower jaw, he was totally devoid of colour.

"ID, please," Kurt said, as well as he could without a bottom jaw.

"Kurt. Kurt Cobaine. Oh fuck, you were great. What the hell are you doing here?"

"ID, please."

Billy grabbed him, shaking him by the shoulders. Kurt's eyes focused on him, and then he groaned, pathetically.

"You were a great one. What are you doing here?" he asked.

Another moan. "It's all the same down here," Kurt said, or at least, Billy understood that was what he was trying to say. It mostly came out as grunts and sucking wet sounds. "I'd rather be a du jour boy band and be alive than be here."

Billy put his hands to his ears. "I don't want to hear this," he said.

Kurt shook his head. "You are on a foolish quest. Go back, save yourself."

"I'm going."

Kurt sighed, another wet, plopping sound. "Identification please."

Billy showed him his battered British Colombian driver's license. Kurt studied it carefully, compared the picture to his face, and let him pass.

The waitress waited for him on the other side of the black curtain. The bar had a ball light that made the floor swirl and shimmer. "Show me the Way" played in the back ground.

Her plastic blond hair and wizened red mouth were harsh and cruel, and the lack of flesh on her fingers made them look bony.

"Two drink minimum," she intoned.

"I'm just going-" Billy tried.

She stopped him with a stare. "Two drink minimum," she repeated.

Billy took out a ten dollar bill. She gave him two watered down shots and let him cross.

Billy pushed open the employees only door and entered into Hell.

It was a lot like the back hallway of any bar, only the three headed lawyer was new. Billy dodged out of his way and into a closet, and stepped onto an empty plain. The occasional scream reached him and in the distance, Billy was sure he saw Pipe being chased by a herd of chainsaw-wielding goats.

Billy turned away and followed the sounds of the loudest obscenities.

Joe stood in the middle of the stage, hole in his head gaping. "No fucking way," Joe roared.

The little devil poked him again with his pitchfork. Music started again, rap music blaring, and Joe crossed his arms over his chest.

The devil tried to poke him again, but Joe grabbed it from him and nailed him into the ground with it. The little devil didn't bleed, despite the pitchfork sticking out of its chest. It floundered, and Joe looked around and saw Billy.

"It's about fucking time," he growled, and then sniffed. "But you're still fucking alive. Why are you still fucking alive, William?"

"I'm here to get you out," Billy said.

Joe put his foot on the head of the devil and pulled the pitchfork out of its chest. The devil stood up, dusted himself, and took the pitchfork away.

"Okay."

Billy nodded. They turned around to go and almost ran into Hades.

Joe squinted his eyes. "Hey, didn't I piss on you?" he asked.

Hades went red. "I am all record labels."

"Fucking thought so." Joe glared at Billy.

"I'm taking him back," Billy said, to change the subject.

Hades narrowed his eyes. "It's not that easy." Behind him, the gathered devils cheered and started to mambo. Hades looked behind him and the celebrations died. "There is always a test." Hades smiled and reared himself up in his cheap suit. "You may leave," he thundered, "If, and only if the two of you can return to your level and never once utter the word, 'fuck'."

The devils behind Hades began to weep. Billy and Joe went pale.


End file.
